


To Look on Tempests

by elektratios



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (madame tracy - mentioned), Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Aziraphale's Bookshop, Beaches, Books, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Childhood Friends, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cornwall, Dating, Do you wish anathema had an actual storyline?, Ensemble Cast, Environmentalism, F/F, Fantasy, Folklore, Food, Friendship, Gay Pride, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kew Gardens, Lesbian Anathema Device, Literature, M/M, Merpeople, Multi, Mythology References, Oscar Wilde - Freeform, POV Adam Young (Good Omens), POV Anathema Device (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), POV Madame Tracy (Good Omens), POV Multiple, POV Pepper (Good Omens), POV The Them (Good Omens), Plot, Politics, Polyamory, Pride, Prophecy, Questioning Pepper (Good Omens), Romance, Sea Monsters, Secret Identity, Sex Work, Slow Burn, Summer, Sussex, Tarot, Witches, am i bringing in characters that were only ever mentioned by other characters? yes, am i making them love interests? yes, courting, cw for kids trying to figure out politics, i cant believe these tags dont exist, i have most of this fic planned out, im taking a lot of liberties with brightons geography, mild racism and homophobia warning because shadwell, no-one is straight thank god, seances, the merman au that no one asked for, then this is the story for you, there is literally no river in brighton so thats entirely made up :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-04-23 14:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektratios/pseuds/elektratios
Summary: 'The pounding of feet on the boardwalk above echoed around him, amplified by the columns and the still water and thrumming like the sound was trapped between drumskins. Crowley closed his eyes. He could hear children chattering, a few dogs barking, the flapping wings of a seagull. The jaunty melody of the spinning teacups started up and it was joined by shrill screams from the children on the rollercoaster at the end of the pier. No doubt there would be a spattering of sick from thrown up ice creams and fish and chips across the boardwalk by the end of the day.Crowley basked in it. It had been far too long since he’d been around so many people, had a proper conversation, caused a little mischief. Tempted someone into the sea.Made a friend.'The siren au no-one asked for.





	1. Moste Mysterious Serpentes

**Author's Note:**

> The title is paraphrased from Sonnet 116 by Shakespeare. This is an AU and Azi's name is still Aziraphale, but he goes by Ezra the majority of the time. Footnotes are contained within the text itself (in brackets) to limit scrolling. 
> 
> I've tried to leave the character descriptions vaguely open-ended as per the book so you can imagine them how you like. However, for interest, I'm imagining Aziraphale fairly like Michael Sheen and Crowley like [Naveen Andrews as Jonas in Sense8](https://www.google.com/search?q=jonas+sense8&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjRu6aKwt3iAhXRqHEKHQAICLIQ_AUIESgC&biw=1366&bih=625). Similarly, Anathema is based on her book description (from Lancashire, pale with black hair). Pepper is also based on her book description (freckly, red hair) and she's black like the TV show. 
> 
> The story is largely based off the book plot and characterisations but incorporates elements from the miniseries :) As the chapters go on I'll try and clarify the influences from each in the beginning notes for anyone who's only familiar with one of the universes. 
> 
> Comments are my sustenance ;)

Ezra didn’t trust her with his willow pattern teacups. The steam rose and curled from the hot chocolate Anathema was holding, and she tapped her bitten fingernails against the cheap china. It had clearly been purchased recently from some corner shop or the other for a few quid for her benefit, and this was oddly touching. Ezra wasn’t exactly one to own anything less than ‘fancy’ china and so the fact that he’d bought a cheap mug for her, so incongruous in this bookshop full of oddities and curiosities, filled her with a gentle warmth. 

Anathema hadn’t been in Brighton long, but since she was to be here for the foreseeable future (literally), she applied herself to the task of widening her social circle with verve. She hadn’t often got the chance to do so in the past as she flitted from place to place and had to content herself with a series of shallow friendships and quick flings (always meticulously planned for in advance, of course), so now she seized the opportunity with enthusiasm, and had decided to start with the eccentric bookseller next door. He’d told her his name was Ezra, but she was understandably suspicious of this claim since the sign outside proclaimed ‘A.Z. Fell’, and she was quite sure Ezra began with an ‘E’.

Ezra straightened his bowtie a little awkwardly as he sat down opposite Anathema. His armchair, although worn, was beautifully upholstered and wouldn’t have looked out of place in a manor house museum. It was slightly too grand for the back of this stuffy bookshop. 

“Now then, my dear,” he began politely, the signet ring on his little finger clinking against his mug. He had also opted for a cheap white mug to match hers. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, I have a book you might be interested in.” Anathema reached down into her leather satchel and withdrew a thick tome. She handed it across the table to Ezra who ran his fingers gently across the cover. Despite the critical look on his face, he handled the book with care. 

“I found it in amongst my things this morning,” she explained, “but I don’t have much use for it now so I thought you could add it to your collection on mythologies.” She was quite generous here, as Ezra’s ‘collection on mythologies’ consisted of a few battered editions of old folk tales scattered on a shelf in the back room. In comparison the sections covering religious theology and British history were much more extensive and made up the majority of the shop stock. Anathema could see at least ten different editions of the Bible from where she sat.

 _“Moste Mysterious Serpentes?”_ Ezra asked, glancing up at her. She could see he was unconvinced. 

“Mm. Written by someone up on the Isle of Skye in the 15th century apparently. Had a bit of an obsession with sea creatures and would sometimes travel where there were recorded sightings of the kraken or investigate ships that had lost all their crew to sirens, that sort of thing.” (1)

 

(1. The author’s name was Yde McCurdy. In fact, they hadn’t lived on the Isle of Skye itself, but alone on a smaller island a half hour boat ride away. They eschewed the company of people and their ridiculous societal rules and traditions as much as possible, and were assumed to happily live alone in a little cottage they’d built themselves. The folk on the Isle of Skye generally regarded them with suspicion and suspected they had one or two screws lose, if they hadn’t fallen out altogether. While normal people usually have a healthy handful of interests, for example reading books, collecting stamps, and setting fire to people’s property, McCurdy’s entire capacity for hobbies was taken up by the wonders of the sea. Despite having written extensively on mysterious and fantastical sea creatures, most of it is assumed to have been made up, especially since by the time McCurdy had gotten word of an ‘encounter’ with a creature and journeyed to the mainland and then on to the scene in question, it was weeks or months too late, and often there was no apparent evidence to be found. As such, most people regarded their publications to be a load of codswallop, and their contributions to the study of the sea were swiftly forgotten after their death. It was only in the 19th century that surviving manuscripts were translated and compiled into the edition that Anathema had come into possession of. It’s said by the few people on the Isle of Skye who care about such things that Yde had a rather extensive collection of rare and beautiful rocks and fossils from across the seabed of the various oceans, although no-one could quite explain how they could have acquired all of these and their property was lost long ago to the wiles of the sea. Ezra, having had no particular interest in this area before today, was unaware of all of this.)

 

Ezra hummed, and inspected the binding with a sharp eye before leafing through the first few pages, absently pushing his mug further away from the book, just in case. The text was accompanied by illustrations in faded black ink, obviously reproductions of the author’s original sketches. He paused at a detailed illustration of a sea-serpent. Next to it was an incomprehensible scrawl scratched into the page with a leaky biro. 

“Is this your writing?” Ezra gently tilted the book towards Anathema and pursed his lips, unimpressed. His posh accent seemed to get even crisper in his displeasure. “That’s no way to treat books, you know. You could have used a post-it note if it was that important! I’m assuming this book is rather rare?”

Anathema flushed a bit. “Yes, uh, I didn’t have any post-its with me at the time. I wasn’t really thinking about how much the book was worth.”

Ezra sniffed and adjusted his spectacles with a haughty air. Anathema rather thought he wore them for show more than for any optical deficiency. He cleared his throat and began to read from the page in a measured voice.

_“[…] It is true, indeed, that the serpent can understand the English tongue, as first recorded by St. Colmcille and immortalised in ink by the monk Andomnán in the Life of St. Columba (Vita Columbae) in the year 700 AD. Not only did Andomnán document the prophetic revelations of St. Colmcille, but he chronicled events such as the following described encounter on the banks of the River Ness, although with false attribution to the Miraculous rather than the supreme intelligence of the serpent itself. Andomnán quotes St. Colmcille’s command of the serpent thus; ‘Thou shalt go no further, nor touch the man; go back with all speed’ after which the serpent fled, sparing the life of the man whom St. Colmcille had commanded to swim across the river in enticement of the serpent towards their party. To assume Divine Intervention here is foolhardy, especially so as I discovered during my own recent investigations that this serpent, in command of an exceptionally extended life-span, is responsive to commands in the English tongue and is of a passive disposition when approached without ulterior motive.”_

Ezra stopped reading. “Anathema, for heaven’s sake.” He shook his head. “Why on earth did you decide to buy this ridiculous thing?” He closed the book with an exasperated air, although the movement was still gentle in order not to cause damage, and the pages closed with a rather satisfying thud. 

Anathema grinned. “Oh I just thought it might be relevant. Not sure what to, but I know it will be. The woman I bought it from was reluctant to give it ‘me. Said her family’d had it in their collection for a number of years and it was a piece of local heritage in a way.”

“Oh? When were you up in Scotland then? I thought you were from Lancashire?” Ezra asked, even though he knew he’d remembered correctly. Anathema’s low, soothing accent was unmistakable. Ezra took off his glasses and settled back in his chair, cradling his mug of hot chocolate.

“I am. I just took a trip up around Scotland for a bit, did a bit of digging around, you know. Wasn’t really for me. Brighton feels right though, somehow, like I’m meant to be here.”

Ezra nodded in understanding. “Yes, Brighton is lovely, my dear. And I believe your shop fits in rather well with the local colour.”

Anathema and Ezra’s respective shops nestled cosily together down one of the cobbled alleyways of the Lanes near the seafront. It was perfect for Ezra, whose aim was to sell as few of his books as possible and found that the tourists who frequented the area weren’t often interested in worn tomes of philosophy or theology. He’d done his best to make the bookshop as uninviting as he could, and the narrow door and bare stone steps leading down into the dimly lit shop could attest to this, as they immediately put off anyone with a physical disability or social anxiety disorder. The opening times were subject to his whim, and the books were uncatalogued and disorganised, although he had picture perfect memory for the location of each and every one of them. On an average day the most he would have to contend with was the odd hipster looking for something worn and leather-bound to complement their aesthetic, but he soon ushered them off with talk of rare editions and faux-regretful claims that he ‘couldn’t _possibly_ sell that for less than one hundred pounds…’

The sex shop next door probably helped too.

Well. It wasn’t exactly a sex shop _per se,_ but the inventively displayed _toys_ for purchase that decorated the walls of the tarot/séance room rather implied it wasn’t just an establishment for divination either. 

Anathema’s shop, in comparison, delved quite deeply into the occult. The shop was filled to the brim with various devices for the practice of witchcraft, and books covering everything from Paganism, Wicca, and the witch trials, to the properties of mushrooms and berries and holistic medicine. The shop smelt, rather strongly in Ezra’s opinion, of incense and essential oils. However, there was a certain charm about it all, and he was rather partial to the décor, as Anathema had crowded the shop with little marble ornaments and macramé pieces that she’d crafted herself. He was rather itching to ask her to perhaps sculpt him a piece, but didn’t want to appear too forthcoming. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. 

Ezra put down his empty mug and then startled when a lanky ginger cat jumped up into his lap. Ezra wore rather abrasive corduroy trousers, but the cat seemed unbothered as it settled down and absently groomed its paws. Ezra scratched behind its ears, not sure quite where to rest his arms now that a living creature had decided he was the perfect place for a grooming session. Apart from Anathema, who was its owner and thus contractually obliged to love it, Ezra and the rest of the human population regarded the cat mostly with apathy. It wasn’t particularly social, nor was its fur particularly lustrous or its eyes particularly eye-catching. This suited the cat fine though, as it was rather apathetic to the world itself. 

“Newt seems to like you well enough,” Anathema noted, finishing her hot chocolate. Ezra hummed in agreement, although he privately thought that the cat simply appreciated that Ezra had no expectations of him. Newt stretched mildly, and then hopped down and slipped out of sight again. 

“How are you settling in then?” He asked. He pensively traced the lettering on the book cover. 

“Oh, it’s brilliant, actually! I didn’t realise there was such an established community of witches down here, but it’s been great for business. I’ve actually been invited to a gathering next week by one of my regulars.” Anathema’s ‘regulars’ were simply people who had entered the shop more than once, since she’d only been open less than a month. 

“And your landlord?” Ezra enquired.

“Oh yes, Jay’s quite happy with the shop. He doesn’t really come around much, he just lets me get on with it. There’s not a lot for him to do.”

Mr. Jay, Ezra had discovered, was the name of the rich businessman who had snapped up Anathema’s shop just after the previous owner moved on. It ruffled Ezra’s feathers because this Mr. Jay was renting the lot out to Anathema for peanuts, whereas he and the rest of the proprietors in the Lanes had extortionate bills to keep on top of, and most of them were reliant on the Retail Diversity Subsidy from the council. It was at one of the compulsory monthly RDS meetings that he’d first heard about Mr. Jay from the other retailers. Not that he held Anathema’s good fortune against her of course, but he was a touch sour about the situation. 

“At least he’s renting out to independent shops like mine and not trying to gentrify the Lanes,” Anathema noted mildly. She easily caught on to Ezra’s bitterness from the change in his aura.

“You’re right, of course.” Ezra conceded, and then changed the topic. “I do hope Brighton continues to charm you. Now, about this book. How much were you hoping for? The binding is fairly well-preserved, and it is a first-edition of this print run. However, your notes in the margins rather-“

“Oh no, don’t worry about it. It’s a gift.” Anathema saw Ezra’s lips purse and knew he was about to protest. “Really. I don’t need it anymore and frankly your mythologies section could use a bit of help.”

Ezra considered her for a moment and then nodded, colouring slightly with awkwardness at the kind gesture. The glint in his eyes betrayed his excitement at the acquisition. “Oh, well, thank you, Anathema. It’s- that is to say, it’s incredibly generous of you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Anathema said. She was smiling. Of course, this was all predetermined, but she was proud of having made a friend on her own terms. Soon she wouldn’t have to question her actions anymore, question whether they were her own or the guiding hands of her ancestor. Either way, she was more content than she’d felt in a long time. 

Suddenly, all the lights in the shop sputtered out. Ezra startled again and almost knocked his mug over. Anathema looked around and spotted Newt’s blue eyes peering out at her from behind the shop counter where he was sitting on top of a series of plugs in an extension cable. She tried to muffle her laugh, but couldn’t, and soon Ezra was giggling along with her, his laugh curiously high-pitched. 

“Well, I think it’s about time I closed up shop anyway,” he said.

“It’s only half past twelve,” Anathema protested. 

“Exactly!” 

 

\---

 

Ezra hummed quietly as he walked through the bustling streets of Brighton. Anathema’s gift had been a lovely surprise and he couldn’t deny that he was delighted at the acquisition. She was right in saying that his mythologies collection was very sparse, but _Moste Mysterious Serpentes_ should make an entertaining addition to it. He actually had a secret fondness for outlandish conspiracies and myths and had been meaning to seek out some specific titles for a long time. Even so, he would have to deal with that later, as he was presently on his way to meet the owner of a witch-finding manuscript. 

It had been absolute _hell_ trying to convince the man, one Mr. Shadwell, to give up the book, despite him owning all three copies of it. The protestations just kept coming. He said he needed all three copies in his possession for the sake of preserving witch-finding history. Ezra pointed out that having three copies stored in one place increased the risks of losing that history, say, for example, in a fire. Shadwell then said that a one Witchfinder General Smith had personally bequeathed two of the copies to Shadwell upon his death. Ezra suggested he purchase the third copy. Shadwell then claimed that a curse had been put upon the third copy by a most evil witch before _her_ death. Ezra had assured him that he was quite willing to take on any curse, and wouldn’t Shadwell rather be rid of it in that case?

Finally after months of gentle _cajoling, _Ezra had Shadwell rather metaphorically tied up, and he’d agreed to let go of the cursed copy. Ezra privately thought the sum he’d demanded (two thousand good British pounds) was rather a lot, but he decided he would pick his battles.__

__Ezra ducked into the independent coffee house they’d agreed to meet in. Coffee wasn’t exactly his drink of choice, but he’d heard they did a rather delectable fruit tart. Apparently the apricot glaze was _divine._ _ _

__“Mr. Fell, aye?” Ezra turned at the gruff voice. A coarse-looking man was sat at a window table, looking altogether out of place in the modern establishment. He held out a tobacco stained hand for Ezra to shake. “First name’s Azrafell or something?” The man snorted, and Ezra took an instant dislike to him. He surreptitiously wiped his hand on his trousers._ _

__“It’s Aziraphale, but Mr. Fell will do nicely.” Ezra had gone by ‘Ezra’ for so long that his given name felt strange in his mouth._ _

__Shadwell made no sign that he’d heard him, and he plonked a parcel down on the small table between them. ‘This’ll be wha’ yer after then. Take a good look. Pristine condition.”_ _

__Ezra sat down and picked up his menu. “Before we start, shall we order? Oh, heavens, I had no idea they had gyokuro tea!”_ _

__Shadwell grimaced. “I’ll not be having any o’ that Oriental stuff. They put all kinds of stuff in it, ye can’t trust ‘em.”_ _

__Ezra gaped at him, flustered. Heat rose high in his cheeks. “I think you’ll find that the majority of teas come from East Asia, and they have ingredients of the highest standards!”_ _

__Shadwell snorted again, but thankfully a waitress appeared at their table before he could continue, and took their order. Ezra ordered a citrus fruit tart and sencha, deciding to indulge even as his wallet protested. Shadwell simply waved his hand and ordered nothing._ _

__As soon as the waitress left, Ezra straightened up and spoke before Shadwell could say something else inappropriate. “Right then, to business.” He pulled a handkerchief from his briefcase and delicately wiped his hands with it, making sure they were completely dry. Then, he fetched his magnifying glass from his coat pocket and pulled the book towards him._ _

__Each of the three copies of the manuscript were hand-written, painstakingly copied out by Witchfinder General Waters back in the late 17th century. This meant each copy was original and had they been famous or highly-sought after Ezra was sure they would be worth a small fortune. However, this manuscript was bizarre even within the highly specialised field of witch-finding scholarship, and he was certain no-one else had much interest in them. After all, it ultimately amounted to a collected series of journal entries, announcements, and reminders left between the Lancashire witchfinders. He really only wanted it for a bit of entertainment, and also for the inherent satisfaction in possessing it. However, after Anathema’s gift that morning he was considering passing it on to her once he was finished with it._ _

__Ezra handled the book carefully as he inspected the spine for creases and noted the quality of the binding._ _

__“Ain’t ye’ meant to be wearing gloves for that?” Shadwell snapped, reaching towards the book. Ezra calmly pulled it out of reach, wrinkling his nose at the idea of Shadwell’s yellow fingers dirtying it up._ _

__“That’s a myth. In fact you lose tactile sensation with gloves on and you’re more likely to damage the book.” He paused. “I must say, you certainly have taken good care of this, Mr Shadwell.” Whatever his dislike of the man, he couldn’t deny the book was immaculate._ _

__Shadwell appeared to be rolling a cigarette. “Eh, ye great pansy. Tryin’ out ye flattery on me.”_ _

__Ezra winced and laid the book back down in its wrappings on the table. He wanted this to be over as soon as possible._ _

__“I’m sorry Sir, but you’re not allowed to smoke in here.” Ezra let out a relieved sigh at the return of the waitress, and gratefully took his tea from her as she laid the fruit tart in front of him, along with a dainty miniature fork. Shadwell grumbled something incomprehensible and Ezra ignored him as he smiled gratefully at the waitress and let the tea warm his hands._ _

__“S’not’ right, preventing upstanding people from smoking. Not like it used to be.” Shadwell seemed to pull a flask out of nowhere and took a long swig of whatever was inside. “Back in the day a witchfinder could commandeer whatever he liked wherever he liked, ye ken? We was the front lines against Evil. Wouldnae get told off for smoking then. People’d be bringing yer all the tobacco they ‘ad.”_ _

__Ezra sniffed and humoured Shadwell with a great effort. “And I’m sure your forebears did a fine job.” He took a bite of the fruit tart and moaned decadently. The apricot glaze really was divine._ _

__Shadwell leaned forward. “Tell yer what. I’ve taken a liking to you, pansy or not. I’ve got another book I’ve bin tryin’ to get shot of. Seafaring prophecies of Agnes Nutter, ye’ve heard of it?”_ _

__Ezra’s eyes snapped open. _“The Nice and Accurate Seafaring Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch?”_ Ezra’s voice was shrill by the time he’d gasped out the full title of the book. There could be no way on God’s green Earth that this fool of a man could have that book, surely?_ _

__“The very one,” Shadwell confirmed, eyes glinting. He took another swig of his drink and leaned over the table so close that Ezra could identify the smell of condensed milk on his breath. “That book there’s got some prophecies in the back by Nutter too. She’s the one who cursed it. Worst of all the witches, she was. Blew up a whole town to kingdom come when it was her turn on the stake. I can pass her complete prophecies on to you too…for a reasonable price.”_ _

__The forgotten piece of kiwi on Ezra’s miniature fork slid sadly off the tines and plopped on the table._ _

__He was too shell-shocked to even register the money-grabbing glint in Shadwell’s eye. “How much?” He asked._ _

__“Eh…let’s see now. It is quite a special book, pretty important fer a witchfinder like meself, ye ken. Don’ think I could do it less than four thousand.”_ _

___“Four thousand!”_ Ezra slammed the fork down on the table, causing rather a larger clanging sound than he’d meant to. He hurriedly lowered his voice. “You and I both know it isn’t worth half of that!”_ _

__Shadwell leaned back in his chair again. “Well it’s up to you, laddie, yer can take it or leave it.”_ _

__Ezra bit back a sharp retort. He considered. “How about four thousand for the two books?”_ _

__Shadwell snorted. “Don’t waste my time, lad. Five’s my final offer.”_ _

__Ezra doubled down. “Four thousand five hundred.”_ _

__Shadwell stared at him for a moment longer and then stuck his hand out again. “That’s a done deal, laddie. Meet you ‘ere tomorrow?”_ _

__Ezra felt giddy. _The Nice and Accurate Seafaring Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch!_ He scrambled to get his cheque book out of his coat pocket, and wrote out a cheque for the original two thousand. “Here. The two thousand for this manuscript, and you’ll get the rest tomorrow after I’ve seen the _Prophecies._ ”_ _

__Shadwell fingered the cheque for a moment, then shoved it in his pocket. “On the morrow then.”_ _

__He left._ _

__Ezra sipped his sencha in stunned silence._ _

__

__\---_ _

__

__Adam Young climbed through the ragged hole in the fencing where he’d cut away at it some years ago. The wire was curled and brown, forgotten. He was careful not to rip his t-shirt on it. He didn’t want to end up like Brian whose clothes always had holes and rust stains. The rest of the Them followed him through._ _

__“We need to make this hole bigger. My mum’ll kill me if this shirt gets holey,” Brian complained._ _

__“You’re climbin’ through it wrong,” Adam stated, already walking away from Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale along the steep green bank of the river._ _

__“How can you go through a hole wrong?” said Brian. He straightened up and tried to rub a rust stain out of his shorts._ _

__“You don’t duck enough and you catch your shirt on that sticky-out bit,” said Pepper, and she pushed him down by the shoulders to demonstrate the proper form of hole-ducking._ _

__“Gerroff!” Brian protested, rolling away and almost slipping down the bank. Pepper smirked. She was enthusiastically taking part in ‘roughhousing’ whenever she could, already aware that she had to work twice as hard to maintain her status within the gang since she was the only girl._ _

__“Come on!” Adam yelled. He was already way ahead of the rest of them, and Wensleydale was only just emerging from the fence. Dog trotted along by Adam’s feet, pausing here and there to twitch his ears or veer off course to investigate a strange smell._ _

__Wensleydale’s glasses had nearly slipped off his nose. The three of them set off after Adam. “You know, the current is strong enough in this river to push us right out into the Channel if we fall in.”_ _

__“We’ve been fine the last three years. S’not likely we’ll fall in now when we know this place so well,” Brian replied._ _

__“Yeah, but if our den’s in the same state as last week I don’t think Adam’ll want to come here anymore,” Pepper said, “and I know I won’t.”_ _

__Dog picked up a large stick and trotted over to Adam._ _

__“My father says it’s called fly-tipping,” Wensleydale said._ _

__“What’s called fly-tipping?” asked Brian._ _

__“People ditching stuff they don’t want any more somewhere people won’t look.”_ _

__“But we’re looking,” said Pepper._ _

__“They don’t know that,” said Wensleydale._ _

__Pepper had no reply to that. After all, no-one did know they were looking. In fact, no-one knew they regularly visited this part of the river. It was at the back of some boring industrial estate with fences and concrete and warning signs and it was always deserted, and according to their parents it wasn’t the right place for playing._ _

__“Maybe we should write a sign or something,” Brian suggested, “you know, to let them know we’re looking at them.”_ _

__They’d caught up with Adam._ _

__“People just ignore signs,” he said, tapping the stick against the floor as he walked. “We’re here right now but there are loads of signs telling us to go away. No trespassing and stuff like that. Besides, this isn’t normal fly-tipping stuff.”_ _

__“How do you know?” said Wensleydale, “I bet you haven’t done fly-tipping before.”_ _

__Brian looked around for a stick too, and found one leaning up against the fence._ _

__Adam huffed irritably. “I could of done! People ditch stuff like fridges and sofas and things like that when they get new ones.”_ _

__“And beds and tyres and sometimes animals as well,” Pepper added. “Someone dumped a dog in the fields around the back of school once.”_ _

__Dog whined._ _

__Adam reached down and patted his head reassuringly._ _

__“Well anyway this isn’t that,” Adam stated firmly. “This is like, wires and metal. And those little cog things that go inside clocks. And batteries.”_ _

__The Them had arrived at the den. It was a little patch of flat land by the river where the grass had browned and burned away, and it was piled high with the things Adam had described. Industrial machinery and metal parts and circuit boards and all manner of unidentifiable twisted bits of junk. The whoosh of cars passing on the motorway filled the solemn silence._ _

__“Lets go,” Adam said, annoyed. “We’ve got to make another den somewhere else. I don’t like it here.”_ _

__Pepper looked at the grass surrounding them, upset. “It’s bad for the grass, look! All this stuff is leaking everywhere and going into the river.” She peered over the slope, where the junk continued to pile up and the water rushed around it._ _

__“It’s like global warming isn’t it. The world getting too hot and everything like that.” Brian said._ _

__“No,” said Wensleydale, “this isn’t making the world hot. It’s polluting the river and then that will pollute the sea.”_ _

__“Why doesn’t someone do something about it then,” Brian said, as if he was the first to think of it._ _

__“They hush it all up. Don’t want anyone knowing about it ‘cause then people won’t get angry.” Adam said._ _

__“Who’s they?”_ _

__“The people in charge. The government. Costs them money to clear it up, see, and people are lazy and don’t wanna throw it away.”_ _

__“And anyway if they throw it away properly then it all just rots somewhere else,” Pepper said._ _

__The Them grew quiet as they considered this._ _

__Adam walked off. “Let’s go,” he repeated._ _

__They followed._ _

__

__\---_ _

__

__Brian wanted to get an ice-cream, and since it was summer they decided to go for a paddle in the sea. Wensleydale had been given a bit of spending money and agreed to pay for a few goes on the air hockey table, so they biked the half hour to the pier. After their games of air hockey (Pepper won all of hers) and after Brian had got his ice-cream (a magnum, but the others got 99s) they ran down into the sea by the pier._ _

__Dog was overjoyed, excited by the waves and splashing happily through the breakers. The tide was out and he left hundreds of little paw prints in the wet sand. Adam rolled up his trousers and waded in deeper. Wensleydale hung back a bit._ _

__Brian started to take off his t-shirt._ _

__“You might as well leave that on,” Pepper said, and laughed, “It needs a wash before your mum sees it.”_ _

__Brian left his t-shirt on, and ran out into the sea, Pepper close on his heels._ _

__Adam had dived under the water, not caring that he didn’t have a spare change of clothes, but he popped up again and he was holding the stick Dog had fetched him back at the den._ _

__“Halt!” he shouted. He was looking at them with his face scrunched up so one of his eyes was closed. It looked painful. “’oo goes there, me hearties?”_ _

__Pepper giggled. “Shiver me’ timbers!” she replied._ _

__Brian shouted, and stumbled back to the shore to fetch the other stick where Wensleydale was sitting on the stones, just beyond the tideline._ _

__“Come on, Wensleydale, we’re playing pirates!” Brian ran back into the sea, and this time Wensleydale followed him in._ _

__The four of them started chasing each other amongst the breakers, Dog jumping up between them and barking. Pepper tripped over and went entirely underwater, surfacing and shrieking with her hair plastered all over her face. Brian jumped in front of her, pointing his stick at Adam. “I’ll protect you, fair maiden!” he yelled._ _

__Pepper thumped him. She wrestled the stick out of his hands. “I’m not fair, and I’ll protect myself from the pirate, thanks!” She turned to Adam, “You can kill him if you want, but I’ll challenge you to a fight for my crew!”_ _

__Adam lunged forward and they began swinging the sticks wildly at each other. Wensleydale and Brian watched, jumping back whenever they got too close. Adam took up what he assumed was a proper fencing stance, but it left him wide open for Pepper to get a few hits in at his stomach and he backed further into the sea. He was caught in a swell and fell back into the wave and Pepper followed him over, both of them sinking underwater._ _

__“Oh, I lost my stick!” Adam said, after he’d gotten rid of the seawater up his nose. Pepper pointed her stick in his face. “Surrender, foul pirate!” she cried, and he raised his arms in defeat._ _

__“Looking for this?”_ _

__The Them turned._ _

__There was a man a way off, treading deeper water in a calmer patch of sea between the waves. He held Adam’s stick in his hand and his hair was plastered to the back of his neck. His eyes were piercing yellow with slit pupils._ _

__“Did you just go underwater to get that?” Wensleydale asked. He’d taken off his shirt and trousers to keep them dry and swam out to where Pepper, Brian, and Adam were. He was the sensible one._ _

__“Yeah,” the man confirmed, and tossed the stick over. Adam doggy paddled forward to get it from where it floated on the surface before the next burgeoning wave rolled it under again._ _

__“What’s wrong with your eyes?” Brian asked tactlessly._ _

__The man grinned, showing off straight white teeth. “It’s an abnormality I’ve had since I was born. It tends to scare people.”_ _

__“Well it doesn’t scare us,” Wensleydale said._ _

__“It’s pretty cool,” Brian agreed._ _

__“What’s your name?” Pepper asked, jumping to crest the next wave._ _

__“All these questions, next you’ll be asking me if I’m an animal, vegetable, or mineral.”_ _

__“Go on then,” said Adam. “Which one?”_ _

__“You lot are the animals. Bloody kids. My name’s Crowley but you can call me Anthony if you like.”_ _

__“Can we call you Ant?” asked Pepper._ _

__“Why? Is Anthony too much of a mouthful?”_ _

__“It’s got too many syllables,” said Wensleydale. “You need a nickname.”_ _

__The man considered them for a few moments. His hair was drying quickly in the hot sun and beginning to curl up around his ears._ _

__“Alright then,” he agreed. “You can call me Ant.”_ _

__“I’m Adam,” said Adam. “They’re Wensleydale, Pepper, and Brian.”_ _

__The man jerked his chin at Adam. “Right. Weren’t you just about to surrender to Pirate King Pepper over there?”_ _

__Pepper grinned at the honorific and the man winked at her._ _

__Adam’s eyes lit up, and he spun around in the water, bringing his stick up to parry the one Pepper was still pointing at him._ _

__She yelped and almost lost her grip, propelling herself backwards. “That’s cheating!” she yelled, and half-swam half-ran back towards shore, with Adam in hot pursuit._ _

__

__The Brighton promenade was bustling. After all, it was a hot July afternoon and the majority of Sussex had come down to make the most of the sun. Ezra rested his briefcase on a convenient bench and removed his coat, folding it neatly over his arm. A toddler whizzed past him on a four wheel scooter, closely pursued by their older sibling. Ezra sighed and turned his face up towards the sun, closing his eyes. He was ecstatic. Not only had he got his manuscript safely tucked in his briefcase but in less than twenty four hours he’d have his hands on the prophecies of Agnes Nutter herself._ _

__He gazed out across the calm, glittering waters. There were countless families stumbling down the hill of stones leading to the shoreline, hopping as they stepped on sharp shells with their bare feet. A man pretended to throw his toddler into the waves. The boy shrieked and giggled with delight. A few wind surfers were scattered across the glinting strip of blue and a large cruiser was visible right on the edge of the horizon. A small group of children play fought in the breakers with long sticks. They yelled at a man who floated leisurely just beyond the waves, laughing as the children were swept off their feet._ _

__Ezra felt a part of something big, like the sunny July day had infected him with its holiday spirit and he existed as an integral member of this happy community. He couldn’t stop himself grinning, and even his measured stroll towards the doughnut cart at the entrance to the pier had a little extra hop in it. He ordered six doughnuts. His spirits were so high that even the electronic sounds of the arcade and the screams of children didn’t dampen his mood. He strolled back to the bench and munched on his doughnuts, every now and then flicking a piece towards the seagulls creeping towards him. His lips turned up in amusement. They thought they were being sly, approaching him from the side to try and get close and snaffle a crumb or two. Ezra flicked another piece at the closest seagull. It pecked at the morsel and then flew off. Curiously, the seagulls in Brighton had never been aggressive with him. They’d never pecked at him or swooped at his head. Not a swoop to be found. A woman shrieked suddenly, and Ezra watched as a seagull made off with her chips. He supposed he just had a way with animals._ _

__He cleaned his hands off with a wet wipe (always good to keep these on hand if you need to handle a book on the go) and retrieved the manuscript._ _

__

___‘THE COLLECTED NOTES OF THE WITCHFINDER ARMY: VOL 1 (2)_ _ _

___Collected and reprinted here by  
WITCHFINDER GENERAL WATERS_ _ _

___for the preservation of witchfinding history.’_ _ _

__

__(2: There were no subsequent volumes, as Witchfinder General Waters had had a nervous breakdown soon after he’d completed Vol. 1, and then left the witchfinder army for good. No-one was quite sure what he’d gone on to do afterwards, although there were rumours that he had fled to the Americas with a Miss Wescott, who was the daughter of the last witch he was meant to burn. Strangely, Mrs Wescott disappeared from her cell the night before her public execution.)_ _

__

__Ezra flicked through the contents briefly, and placed bookmarks wherever he saw an interesting story he wanted to come back to later. Usually he would read a book from the front cover to the back, but Shadwell’s hint about the extra prophecy in the back of the manuscript had gotten his attention, and he sped through the main contents as quickly as he could._ _

__The writing at the end was shaky, hesitant. Ezra read on, intrigued._ _

___‘It was no more than two weeks since the completion of this record that I received a visitor at my home. The visitor was the daughter of the infamous witch, Agnes Nutter, who had notoriously murdered the majority of the townspeople who had attended her public execution. The daughter carried with her a letter, in which Agnes Nutter requested I include her last prophecy on the final page of this record. As her death had occurred long before I considered this project, I reasoned that she had foretold the book’s creation using her powers of Evil. I have included the prophecy on the following page, as requested, for the intention of keeping a thorough and accurate record of witchfinder correspondence, and to avoid the most terrible consequences that would befall me in the case of defiance._ _ _

___An Additional Prophecy of Agnes Nutter, Witch_ _ _

___Lette not your hart be guarded, for a family found awaits the Fallen Angel. Four and Two and Two muste join and heale the town with corrupt disease a’glow. Of the Two one walketh amongst men and swimmeth amongst fishe alike.’_ _ _


	2. You feeling lucky, punk?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Anathema looked up from where she was crouched on the floor. A girl stood above her dressed in a tank top and shorts. She was muscular, and her black hair was thick and wavy, reaching just past her shoulders. Anathema swallowed. '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Letitia is so briefly mentioned in the book that she's literally an OC. Avani is very literally an OC.

Anathema’s shop was a mess. Of course, it all just seemed pleasantly cluttered when you first entered it, but one month isn’t really enough time to unpack everything and Anathema had overestimated how much space there was in the tiny building. This was why she was fighting to squeeze in her copy of _Occultism: Volume 1_ on the bookshelf behind the counter without dislodging the very beautiful bookends she’d inherited from her mother. 

The little bell over the shop door tinkled. 

“Morning!” Anathema called. She situated the book safely on the shelf and looked over. There was a girl about Anathema’s age picking her away through the narrow shop. She had her hair neatly back in a braid out bun on top of her head and was dressed almost entirely in black apart from the starched white shirt underneath her waistcoat. Anathema blinked. She was not the usual kind of customer Anathema had. 

“Hi!” the girl called back. She headed over to the bookshelves at the back of the room, which were labelled ‘Wicca’ and ‘History of Witchcraft’, neatly winding through the half-open boxes.

Anathema sighed, and began pushing them behind the counter to make space on the shop floor. After a couple of minutes the girl approached her. 

“Hi! Sorry. Can you help me? I’m looking for some books on witch burnings but I don’t know where to start.”

“What kind of books? Just the history?”

“Yeah, I guess. Or maybe the impact on witchcraft? Or like, a feminist analysis?”

Anathema smiled. “I’ve got the perfect book.” She pulled _Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation_ by Silvia Federici off the shelf. 

“Oh, I’ve heard of that one!”

“Yes, it’s become popular over the last year but it’s a good place for you to start if you want a political analysis of witch burning history.” 

Anathema climbed over the scattered boxes to get back behind the counter and ring up the book. 

“Oh perfect, thanks! That was way easier than I expected.” The girl grinned, and her whole face lit up. Anathema couldn’t help smiling back. 

“I also have more books by this author, or others that go deeper into the practice of witchcraft if you like?” 

“I don’t have the time to look at the moment, sorry, I’m on my lunch break. But I’ll definitely be back, yeah. I just thought I’d pop in ‘cause my nan recommended I come here.” 

“Your nan?” Anathema asked curiously, bagging up the book. She slipped in a free braided bookmark when the girl wasn’t looking. 

“Yeah, she goes to the séances at Madame Tracy’s.” The girl rolled her eyes. “Um, I don’t really believe in that, sorry.” She looked awkward for a second, worried about offending Anathema. Anathema smiled at her reassuringly, and the girl continued. “So, yeah, I told her I wanted to read a bit about witches and she said your shop’s just opened up and I should check it out.”

“One of my ancestors was a witch, up in Lancashire. I know quite a bit about the history of the Lancashire witch burnings if you want to know more.” 

“Seriously?”

“The knowledge has been passed down through my family, and I sort of picked up occultism as I went along.” Anathema gestured vaguely to the shop. “You could come back and I can help you with your research if you like?”

“Ah, it’s not really research. I’m actually a student at the uni but I’m writing my dissertation on something completely different. It’s driving me nuts though. I’m sick of it.”

“What are you writing it on?”

“Sergio Leone’s films.”

Anathema raised her eyebrows.

“Spaghetti westerns.” The girl raised her hand up like it was holding an imaginary gun. “You feeling lucky, punk?”

Anathema laughed. “I can’t say I’m familiar with westerns.”

“Yeah I don’t blame you, they’re really a lot of macho crap. I’m meant to be doing a feminist analysis of them but most of the time I just desperately wanna throw my laptop out of the window.” The girl gesticulated as she spoke, animated with what was probably months of pent up frustration at her studies. 

“Oh, I know the feeling.” Anathema glanced at the back room, where she kept an index of prophecies. 

“Are you a student then? Sorry, wait, what’s your name? Mine’s Letitia.” 

“Anathema. I got my PhD recently and then I moved to Brighton.”

“Wait, you own this shop? And you have a PhD!?”

“Yes,” Anathema said, “I realise most doctorates want more than a small business after they graduate but-“

“Oh no, I just mean that you look so young!”

“I’m 20.” 

“Oh my God. Seriously? You’re younger than me and you have a PhD and a shop.”

Anathema shifted a bit awkwardly. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s really cool actually. You must be really smart.” 

“I have a very good memory,” Anathema responded, relaxing again. 

Letitia was looking at the clock behind her.

“Oh God, sorry, I really have to go. My break’s almost up. I’ll pop back in soon!”

Letitia rushed out, almost running into a glass case displaying quills and mortar and pestles. 

Anathema found herself looking after Letitia in bewilderment. She didn’t often find herself bewildered, or intrigued, and it was a novel feeling. 

Anathema found herself quite looking forward to Letitia’s next visit. 

\---

It had been only an hour or so since Letitia had left, and Anathema was making headway unpacking her wares. She’d had a steady stream of customers in the shop, most of them just browsing, a few of them buying little knickknacks for gifts. Over the last month she’d only had a handful of serious occultists and witches visit. She was glad that they’d made her feel so welcome since she didn’t subscribe to any particular practice of witchcraft or limit herself to one set of beliefs. 

Anathema was sorting through various Celtic amulets that she’d made herself in a local silver workshop, settling the best ones in the glass cabinet in front of her and rewrapping the others for storage. 

“Your shop is beautiful.”

Anathema looked up from where she was crouched on the floor. A girl stood above her dressed in a tank top and shorts. She was muscular, and her black hair was thick and wavy, reaching just past her shoulders. Anathema swallowed. 

“Thank you.” Anathema was silent for a second, before pulling herself together and standing up. “Do you need help finding something?”

“Oh no. I’m really just looking. I always come to the Lanes when I visit Brighton but I’ve never seen your shop here before.” 

“I opened a month ago, so I’m still quite new to the area.”

“Ah that explains it. Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. My name’s Avani.”

Avani held out her hand, and Anathema shook it. “Anathema,” she said.

“Oh, that explains the shop name, than!” (1)

(1: Anathema’s shop was simply called Anathema’s. She found it made life a lot simpler, since her name was unusual enough to be unique and searchable in the internet, and many occult or witchcraft shops had names that were overly long or mystical and just sounded a bit tacky.)

“Did you make this yourself?” Avani asked, gesturing to the macramé piece hanging over the glass case. The ring on her little finger caught the light and glinted gold.

“Yes, and the marble sculptures behind the counter.” 

Avani turned to look at the sculptures and grinned. She gently picked one up. It was a fairly large piece compared to the others, a long, winding sea serpent swimming upwards as if to slice through the surface of the sea. 

“That’s my favourite one,” Anathema said. “A friend inspired it when I lived up in Scotland.”

“You’re from Scotland?” Avani asked. 

Anathema heard the last customer exit, leaving them alone in the shop.

“No. Lancashire. But I was in Scotland for a short time. I went back to Lancashire afterwards and that’s where I made that piece. There’s a marbling workshop up there which I rent out occasionally.”

The girl looked at Anathema again and smiled as she carefully replaced the piece back on the desk. “You’re incredibly talented.”

Anathema searched for any insincerity in the girl’s gaze but she could find none. “Thank you. It’s for sale you know, if you’re interested.”

“Oh no, I really am only here to look around, although actually I might take some incense.”

Anathema was secretly quite pleased about this because she didn’t really want to sell the serpent. She was quite fond of it. Ultimately, she would never go as far as Ezra next door who regularly intimidated his customers and made his shop as horrendously uninviting as possible to protect his books from being sold, but even so she wasn’t above raising prices a little to save her favourites. 

“So where did you learn to sculpt in marble?” Avani asked. She laid the incense down on the counter and tilted her head as she waited for Anathema’s answer. If Anathema didn’t know for a fact that Avani wasn’t in her future, she’d have thought she was flirting. 

“My mother taught me. She made beautiful garden decorations out of marble and often sold them to manor houses around Lancashire and Yorkshire. She made pottery too, but I was never any good at that.”

“The wheel?”

“The clay would always just fly off and splatter the floor. It was a nightmare, you can’t imagine.”

Avani laughed. It was a lovely rich sound, and Anathema fiddled nervously with a paper bag. 

“I’ve never been good at crafty things. Art, music, drama, all that. Even cooking. I can’t cook to save my life, and my parents hate that. I was a nightmare in class too. I think if you put me anywhere near a pottery wheel it would spontaneously combust.”

“So, what do you do then?” asked Anathema, and she couldn’t help leaning forward over the counter slightly, perhaps a touch too far into Avani’s space to be professional. 

“Oh, I run.”

“You run.”

Avani laughed again. “Yeah, as in I’m a runner. Not casually. I compete at a local level and in charity runs, but I’d like to go to the national championships eventually.”

Anathema dropped her gaze and looked over Avani again, seeing her in a new light. The muscles in her arms and shoulders, the flat stomach beneath her tank top that probably concealed defined abs. The counter was in the way but Anathema could remember her calves with perfect clarity. 

She had never been more attracted to someone in her life.

Anathema flicked her gaze up again, and met Avani’s cheeky grin. Damn. 

Anathema cleared her throat. “That’s really impressive. I think if you put me anywhere near a track the whole stadium would spontaneously combust. How long have you been running for?”

“Oh, forever.” Avani tucked her hair behind her ear. “Ever since school. I was chosen for the district sports and then I just never stopped. When you find something you like, you might as well just go for it, you know? Don’t let anybody tell you what to do.”

Anathema swallowed. “I like cooking,” she said. Then she cringed. 

Somehow, Avani didn’t seem put out by the random statement. “Oh yeah. What do you cook?”

Anathema was stumped for a second. She did like cooking. It was just that she hadn’t done much of it. “Oh, anything,” she said, noncommittally. Anathema felt stressed. 

The bell jingled again, and a small group of teenagers pushed their way into the shop. Anathema pulled back, startled, and Avani calmly stepped away from the counter. 

“Thanks for the incense, Anathema,” she said.

“My pleasure.”

Anathema watched as Avani left the shop, heading down towards the beach. 

 

\---

 

It was another hot day. Crowley could feel that a storm was going to hit, probably later that night. The air was unnaturally still, and the sea lay flat, just the merest hint of foam caressing the bottoms of sunbathers’ feet. The beach was stuffed full of people roasting themselves, bright pink like pigs and sweating under their parasols. 

Crowley appreciated the cool water against his skin. He could bear cold temperatures and pressures that would kill any human, but the soporific heat of a summer’s day could quickly overwhelm him. After swimming the length of the beach a few times he surfaced in the cool shade of the pier. Of course none of the humans sunning themselves noticed how long he was underwater, or if they did they simply convinced themselves their minds were playing tricks.

The pounding of feet on the boardwalk above echoed around him, amplified by the columns and the still water and thrumming like the sound was trapped between drumskins. Crowley closed his eyes. He could hear children chattering, a few dogs barking, the flapping wings of a seagull. The jaunty melody of the spinning teacups started up and it was joined by shrill screams from the children on the rollercoaster at the end of the pier. No doubt there would be a spattering of sick from thrown up ice creams and fish and chips across the boardwalk by the end of the day. 

Crowley basked in it. It had been far too long since he’d been around so many people, had a proper conversation, caused a little mischief. Tempted someone into the sea. 

Made a friend.

Crowley let himself sink underwater. Granted, the water quality in Brighton was abysmal and his vision was severely impaired by it. That’s what comes from settling just over from the shipping lanes, he supposed. He idly considered slipping over into the Channel and tempting enough sailors down to the seabed to create a Bermuda Triangle point 2. Blasted humans had already created the Eurotunnel so he didn’t know why they couldn’t just use that instead of great bloody cruise ships that poisoned the sea. 

Crowley ran his fingers through his hair to disentangle the seaweed caught in his curls. 

When those kids had been playing in the breakers the day before, Crowley couldn’t resist a little bit of temptation. He’d drawn them out into the deeper sea a little, before turning their game back around on them and causing a little chaos for a fleeting moment in their lives. That was the joy of childhood, he thought wistfully; something that mattered one minute was easily forgotten about the next, as if it were never significant at all. Kids were always moving, always learning. 

Ugh. He hated feeling morose. Besides, it proved that he was still tempting people; still doing his job. He’d tell Hastur that, if the bastard decided to come and interrogate him again. Crowley liked to play with his food a bit, rile the humans up before he dragged them down to the ocean floor. 

He conveniently ignored the fact that his last victim had drowned two hundred years ago. 

Crowley lazily considered how he might influence those kids if he saw them again. The weedy one could be fun to play with, he decided. Wesley or something. He seemed the most hesitant to get into the sea. Practical. Probably a bit of a goody-two shoes when he wasn’t with the others. Crowley assumed that the other one with the dirt smeared on his shirt was most likely a lost cause and naturally resistant to the nuanced charm Crowley employed to draw people to him. The other two were easy. (2)

(2: Crowley was ignorant to the fact that his ‘nuanced charm’ was perceived by most people as a failed attempt at looking cool. The reason they thought that is because attempting to look cool was precisely what Crowley was trying to do, and coolness is something one can’t fake. Of course, there was the odd person who found that characteristic particularly endearing, or indeed in a roundabout way, charming.) 

As if he’d summoned them with his thoughts alone,(3) Crowley heard the same four children from the day before advance on him, arguing with each other fiercely. 

(3: Impossible, since unlike witches, Crowley didn’t possess magical powers.  
Well, beyond the confines of his physical body, anyway.)

Their voices were distorted through the water, so Crowley rose to the surface. The kids were climbing over the large black rocks that rested on the shore a few metres away from the first columns of the pier and broke the waves. Crowley drifted closer, grabbing onto the rock furthest out which still peeped above the surface.

“-beach is so crowded,” pointed out Wesley-or-something, “and you know what adults are like. They’ll try and make us stop most of our games and just kick a ball around or something.”

“There isn’t room to kick a ball around,” said Brian. “But it only takes five seconds to get an ice-cream, and we didn’t have that at the den.”

“The ice cream would of melted before we got there,” agreed Pepper. “I like the sea, it’s bigger and better than a measly river anyway, and it’s alright here.” She gestured at their little nook. The pier itself towered above them to one side, and the large rocks piled up on the other, separating them from the rest of the beach. “No-one’s gonna bother interrupting us.”

“It’s got litter though,” Wesley-or-something pointed out. 

He was right. There were dirty drinks bottles and Styrofoam fish and chips containers scattered over the beach from when environmentally _un_ friendly people had dropped them over the side of the pier. The detritus sloped down the strip of stone and sand and into the lapping waves. 

“It’s different.” Adam stated. “This is normal rubbish.” He got to his feet on his rock, higher than the others, and put his hands on his hips. “I declare this spot Den 2.0,” he exclaimed, and then looked around. “We need something to mark the spot,” he said. 

Brian picked up someone’s dirty sock that was stuffed down between the rocks. “Could use this for a flag.” 

Pepper scrunched her nose up. “That’s gross. It’s probably been there for years and got mould in it.” Brian shrugged and dropped it back into the crevice. 

Pepper climbed down from her rock and picked her way through some of the rubbish. Wesley-or-something wiped his sweaty brow and reached down between the other rocks to see what he could find. Adam started hopping from rock to rock, ostensibly also looking for flag materials but really just because it was a lot of fun. 

“Aha!” Pepper held up a ripped Fanta bottle label triumphantly. It was mostly clean and had clearly been chucked down recently. “We can tie this to a stick. It’s orange so people will see it and know this spot is ours.”

Adam looked at it thoughtfully. “Where’s the bottle?” he asked.

Pepper threw it over to him. He held it out to Brian. “Brian, put some sand in this. Fill it to the top. Wensleydale you can find a stick.” The two of them did as they were bid. 

Pepper twisted up the ends of the Fanta label and tied it to the stick Wensleydale found. It was a bit bendy and covered in moss but it would have to do. Wensleydale twisted the stick down into the sand-filled bottle, and held it up for Adam’s judgement. 

Adam grinned. He grabbed the bottle and stood upon The Highest Rock again, yelling “We place our flag here at Den 2 as a mark of our conquest on Brighton beach!”

The others were impressed by this declaration, and clapped and cheered him on as he squeezed the bottle down a crevice. The flag stuck out awkwardly over the lip of The Highest Rock. 

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Crowley called. “Very flash.” His voice carried easily. It was a special talent. 

The Them looked around.

“Over here, kids.”

“Hey, it’s Ant!” Pepper grinned, spotting him.

The Them jumped from rock to rock until the water surrounded them and they could talk to Crowley more easily. 

Crowley gave them a smile. “Nice flag, guys. Recycling. I like it.”

“We’ve been looking for a new place to hang out.” Adam explained. “Gotta make sure people know it’s ours.”

“Mm. Lots of people lurk over here away from prying eyes though. Older kids, you know. I’m not sure they’ll pay attention to your flag. Good spot for illicit deeds when you don’t want the bobbies to see.”

“Illicit deeds?” Pepper asked.

“Drugs and stuff,” said Crowley.

Adam grimaced. “I don’t get why people do drugs. They’re just dangerous and you end up hurtin’ yourself.”

“My mum said homeless people spend all their money on drugs and alcohol,” Brian said. 

“Oh shut up,” Pepper said, “They spend it on food and beds so they don’t get cold. Besides, alcohol keeps you warm if you can’t get a bed or anything and you have to sleep outside. Like in Russia. That’s why all vodka has Russian writing, ‘cause they used to drink it to stop getting cold.”

“Why can’t they just turn the radiator up?” Brian pointed out.

“They didn’t have radiators back then,” said Pepper sagely.

“You would think they’d wan’ something like hot chocolate or Ovaltine instead ‘cause that’s actually hot and tastes better,” said Adam, who was the only one other than Pepper who had actually tried alcohol.

“Who?” asked Wensleydale, “the Russians or the homeless people?”

“The homeless people,” said Pepper.

“What about homeless Russian people?” asked Brian.

“Like when we were camping in my back garden an’ we were all cold an’ the blankets didn’t help an’ then mum brought us hot chocolate an’ we went inside, an’ Russia’s even colder than that,” said Adam. 

There was a brief silence while the Them and Crowley considered sleeping outside in a Russian winter. 

“I don’t see why homeless people get so much stick,” said Adam. 

“Humans always want someone to blame for their problems,” said Crowley, far out of his comfort zone but feeling perhaps as if he should be imparting some wisdom to the Them. “If they see someone worse off than them, then they feel guilty, and some of them get angry about it.”

“That’s stupid,” said Pepper. 

“That’s humans,” said Crowley. 

None of the Them seemed to notice that Crowley excluded himself from the ‘humans’. 

Pepper huffed and turned to Brian. “Well anyway, I think your mum should try being homeless for a day before she judges them.”

She’d definitely want a drink after that, thought Crowley. 

Wensleydale sighed. “Our old den was way better,” he complained. 

Brian picked up a pebble and tried to skim it over the water from his precarious position on the rocks. It skipped once and then sank like a – well, like a stone. 

“Why did you move if you’ve got a better den?” Crowley asked, grateful for the subject change.

“River’s all dirty,” said Wensleydale. 

“There’s rubbish everywhere,” said Pepper.

“The grass has stopped growing,” said Brian.

“Huh. Right. Well, that’s what happens when you get a heatwave. You know. Sun and no rain, rivers dry up and plants stop growing and all that.” 

Pepper shook her head. “No, it’s because of the rubbish. There are all these chemicals which are spilling out into the river.”

“What kind of chemicals?”

“Dunno. We think it’s all batteries and phones and stuff. It’s probably all toxic and polluting the river.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. People litter everywhere and other people clean it up. Gives someone a job to do, doesn’t it?” 

“Do you have a job, Ant?” Wensleydale asked.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Err. A job?”

“Well we’ve seen you here two days in a row and it’s a weekday so you can’t have a job.”

“I’m doing my job right now.” 

The Them were confused. 

Crowley smirked. “I’m a siren.”

“Whassa siren?” asked Wensleydale.

“It’s the same as a mermaid isn’t it?” asked Pepper.

“Sooooort of,” Crowley conceded, “but the myths got a bit mixed up along the way. Humans. They’re not very good with the whole recording history thing.” 

“What’s the difference then?” asked Brian, skipping another stone over the water.

“Er. Well, mermaids sort of sit there and look pretty. Usually live around Greece. They’re a bit poncy really, a bit too goody-two-shoes.” 

“And sirens?” asked Adam, meeting Crowley’s eyes. Crowley had to remind himself to blink. “What do you do?”

Crowley grinned and his voice lowered to a hiss. “I tempt humansss into the sssea and drown them.”

Brian rolled his eyes. Pepper giggled. Adam just looked at Crowley for a moment and he twitched under the scrutiny.

Adam smiled.

\---

 

He had the book. 

He hadn’t had time to read it yet, but it was sitting in the back room of the bookshop waiting for him with bated breath. 

Ezra shivered slightly and drew his long coat tighter around himself. It was late now, and the dusk had fallen, casting a haze over the promenade and turning the sea into an inky black strip. Dark clouds gathered overhead and he could feel a storm coming on. A tiny drop of rain landed on his nose. 

The sea was beginning to whip up in the rising wind and Ezra picked up his pace, passing the pier and heading for his bookshop, which was far closer than his flat. It wasn’t unusual for him to spend the night there delving into one of his books – after all, he didn’t have to open the shop the next day if he needed a nap. 

He caught something out of the corner of his eye and turned to look at the pier. He had to look at it sideways to stop the gaudy glare of the arcade sign blinding him, but – yes – there was a figure out by one of the supporting columns. 

Thunder rolled ominously overhead. Ezra dithered. The rain was coming down harder now, staining his coat and threatening to fill his shoes. He had to make sure they were alright, it was the right thing to do. One shouldn’t be out swimming in this kind of weather.

Having made up his mind, Ezra hurried across the stony beach towards the sea. He slipped on the slope down towards the waves and threw his hand out to catch himself. There was no point in worrying about getting wet anymore; he was covered in sand and muck. 

“Excuse me!” he called, waving at the figure. He could see their head bobbing over the tops of the waves which crashed into the pier columns and sprayed white foam high up into the air. “Excuse me!” he called again, but he got no response. The figure was still fairly close to shore and he could make out their brown skin and dark hair. 

Ezra looked around for a life ring to no avail. From where he was standing just beyond the tideline he knew a life ring would just be buffeted back to shore even if he could find one. By the time he made it back up to the pier it could be too late.

Ezra looked on helplessly. 

The figure turned and caught sight of him. Ezra waved his arms again – they couldn’t hear him but perhaps he could convey what he was shouting internally - _‘Get back to shore, you fool! You’ll be killed! You’ll be smashed against the rocks or drowned!’_

The figure raised a hand and waved back at him. Ezra watched in astonishment as they dipped below the surface for a moment, rose, and began a casual forward stroke in the waves. They seemed unconcerned when they were pushed underwater, and utterly at ease in the roiling sea. 

Ezra blinked and looked around again for help. When he looked back, the figure had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avani is pronounced AH-vah-nee (according to my research). 
> 
> I love comments ;)

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments ;)
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at @folieassdeux


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